


Swords Out

by ajeepandleather



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier, Companionable Snark, Jaskier is a tease, Kidnapping, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajeepandleather/pseuds/ajeepandleather
Summary: you like to think Jaskier is some dainty flower child but he is a feral lil slav and I will die with thisA.K.A - Jaskier is a badass and Geralt is kinda (definitely) into it
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 197
Kudos: 2643





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i apologize for nothing

“Ale,” Geralt grunts to the barkeep when the man makes his way over to where he and Jaskier sit at a distance from the other patrons. Jaskier had just finished his performance for the night, collecting a decent bit of coin. It was enough that they wouldn’t have to dip into the funds Geralt had gotten from the last contract to get a room and a decent meal. 

The barkeep looks to Jaskier next as the bard thinks for a moment, looking down to his coin purse with it’s new coin before looking up with a smile, “Honey wine, please.” The barkeep nods and moves along, leaving Geralt to frown at the man next to him. 

“You could get two barely ales for the same price,” Geralt tells him, learning to not take direct offense to the way Jaskier rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, but I won’t enjoy it half as much so what is the point?” Geralt grunts, turning to his ale when the barkeep comes back with their drinks. Jaskier thanks the man and pays for their room and drinks and is left with a few coins left over. 

“Mmm,” Jaskier practically moans into his glass with the first sip of his wine, smirking at Geralt when he catches the witcher staring from the corner of his eye. 

Geralt is aware that the bard enjoys the finer things in life. Jaskier basks in the applause and donations of a wealthy crowd and will get his wine whenever he can afford it. His clothes are tailored to his trim waist and well toned legs, his lute well tended to and taken into a music shop for special tunings and cleanings when they find a town with the right resources. He liked washing his hair with perfumed soaps and dab scented oils on his neck and wrist before performances and visits into court. 

When they had first met, Geralt had assumed that had made the bard soft. Someone who enjoys the finer things is not likely to also enjoy roughing it on the road like Geralt preferred. And yet Jaskier had followed him through all sorts of uncomfortable circumstances and still came out of it cheery and bright as if six days in the mud with no bath was simply a fact of life. It was for Geralt at least. 

“Bard!” A gruff voice rises from the crowd of tavern patrons followed with heavy, unsteady footsteps. 

Geralt sees Jaskier tense beside him before taking a long gulp of his wine and turning to the sound of the voice. 

“I am afraid that my performance has ended, dear sir. You may call me Jaskier,” he smiles brightly but Geralt can see the tension in the delicate crows feet at the edges of his blue eyes. 

“No, no, you need to sing!” The man is at least a half foot taller than Jaskier, and decently wider if only because of his beer belly. “We came here to be entertained!” This is directed over the man’s shoulder to other drunk patrons that shout their agreement. 

Geralt isn’t in the business of harming humans, not liking the reputation it gives him or the distaste that comes with pushing his sword through something that had a conscious. But this man smelt like more liquor than man and was advancing on the bard with a lowered brow. 

“And I greatly enjoyed entertaining you for over two hours, sir, but alas my time has come to rest. Maybe I can be hired for another night tomorrow if you tell the tavern owner that you wish it,” Jaskier reasons patiently, pulling his shoulders back and tilting his chin up to bring himself to full height. Geralt respects the bard’s gusto, but the drunk in front of them is large and unimpeded by reason and with that thought Geralt moves to stand. 

“How ‘bout  _ I _ hire you, hm?” The man slurs, a lecherous smile slowly unfurly across his ugly mug. “I’m sure I could make you sing, pretty bird.”

Geralt can scent Jaskier instant displeasure with the statement, a sickly scent that reminds Geralt of wilted flowers left in the sun to rot. But undercutting that is something Geralt hasn’t scented on Jaskier before, it’s sharp and bitter and  _ hot _ if scents could have a temperature. Distracted by the new smell under the mix wafting off the bard leaves him aware when things go nearly to shit. 

_ Shling _

“Now, I’ll give you to the count of three,” Geralt feels the weight lift from his hip when Jaskier reaches over and unsheathed his sword, brandishing it in front of him to settle it’s tip just under the drunk man’s sternum, “to back the fuck off.” 

Geralt turns to Jaskier and sees a whole new man. No, that isn’t right. Seeing the bard hold the sword like a man who knows what he’s doing, who’s been in this position before - from the spread of his feet to balance his stance and the solid grip on the hilt - and the way his eyes gleam with the pride of throwing an opponent off as the drunk man stumbles back a step in shock. This isn’t a whole new man, this was just a well concealed side of the man Geralt has come to know. 

“One,” Jaskier starts, leaning forward and pressing the tip of the sword with just enough pressure to rip a small whole into the man’s shirt. 

“Why you little-”

“Two.” The bard steps forward with his back foot but the hand holding the sword stays in mostly the same spot but this makes his ready to skewer the man with one solid press. Geralt has often dismissed the bard as a careless dandy, an educated dumbass that grew up with soft pillows and time to laze about. A man he had to look after and swoop in to save. But seeing this now and recognizing the power in such a stance finds Geralt leaning back against the bar’s counter and crossing his arms over his chest. Jaskier is no damsel in distress. 

“I would do as he says,” Geralt tells the man with a wry smile. Jaskier looks at him for a moment, a bright and edging on manic smile on his face. He looks like a man itching for a good fight. 

“Do I need to say three or would you like to keep your liver?” Jaskier prods the man, poking him a bit with the sword. “Not that it will be worth much in the near future with how much ale I’ve seen you chug tonight alone.”

“No, no, I- I’ll be going.” The man stumbles back a couple steps, eyes only for the sword in Jaskier’s hands, before turning and leaving the tavern altogether. 

“Would anyone else care to demand something of me?” Jaskier waves the sword around in the air almost carelessly as he looks over the other patrons. 

“No, sir. You have already done quite enough,” the barkeep says pleasantly from behind them, putting down a pitcher of ale and another glass of honey wine. “Charls gets a but ahead of himself sometimes is all. This is on the house for your troubles,” he tells them with a dip of his head before moving on. 

“And how long were you going to let me believe you were a damsel in distress? Another year maybe?” Geralt asks, trying to sound serious but the smile won’t be removed from his face. 

Jaskier spins to face him on the ball of his foot, all pride and flourish, with a smile of his own. “Oh but you seemed to so enjoy rescuing me from the bad guys, I couldn’t steal your fame,” Jaskier tells him with a sly raise of his eyebrows. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, eyes on the bard as he draws in close until his chest is mere inches from Geralt’s. Jaskier keeps his eyes on the witcher, a smile still gracing his lips as he slowly resheathes Geralt’s sword without looking. 

“I’ll let you save me next time. Honey wine just does something to me, you know?” Jaskier’s smile grows as Geralt’s stretches across his own face. 

“If only one glass causes you to to start bar fights-”

“Excuse me! I ended that  _ disagreement _ , you barbarian, without a single drop of blood spilt!” Geralt ignores the bard’s protest as he leans further forward into Jaskier space and brushed his lips against the delicate skin of the bard’s ear. 

“I wonder what two glasses might reveal,” Geralt intones with a much deeper rumble in his tone. He listens as the bard’s breath catches in his throat and smiles with how something so simple can light the fire smoldering low in his gut. 

“Oh, witcher,” the bard recovers from his moment of shock quickly. “There is so much to show you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ask and ye shall receive! I got so many nice comments on the last chapter than I've decided to start a lil series I guess, so if you have an idea comment! if you just like the fic, comment or kudos!! if you wish to scream into the void, feel free to scream at me!!!

“Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty!” Jaskier laughs and darts away from the leg Geralt kicks out from where he sits on Roach. It wasn’t a true kick, having seen Geralt kick various enemies from on top of his horse and knowing how powerful that kick could be, but more reminiscent of a friend shoving at your shoulder as you joke together.

“You are insufferable,” Geralt adds, but his eyes are brighter when Jaskier turns to him again, still mindlessly strumming his lute.

“Oh ho ho, I think you mean insurmountable! For my voice has no compare and with no equal to ever hope to replace it!” Jaskier says, puffing out his chest with a fist raised in the air. But with a single sidelong glance from Geralt he can’t hold it together and breaks down into a fit of giggles, trotting to keep up with his travelling companion. 

“No, I have known plenty of people who have mounted you,” Geralt calls over his shoulder, all dry wit. 

“How dare you!” Jaskier gasps, but his laughter beguiles his offense. 

“May I remind you, I am the one who dispatches the scorned lovers you leave in your wake?” Geralt says, raising his eyebrows in Jaskier’s direction now that the bard is back to walking directly beside him. 

“Ugh, you are no fun. Most of the time, a spouse in never mentioned in my dalliances,” Jaskier waves him off with a single hand in the air. 

“I’m sure you are careful to check for the signs of marriage on a person before you approach?” Geralt asks and to that Jaskier has no response. How is it his fault that he gets so caught up in the beauty a person radiates inside and out that he would think of marriage? If a person were truly in full heartedly with their lover then surely they would simply reject his advances? He had found over time that many marriages were simply not as strong as they deserved to be and therefore had no right to be a marriage at all. 

They continue their bantering with a few shifts in topics as they go. Less often than in their early days, Geralt goes quiet and Jaskier is left to fill the silence with song because what good is a bard if not to fill the silence? 

“Why don’t you try miming? Is that not a form of entertainment?” Geralt asks, an hour or so after they pass a sign directing them into town. 

“Now how would I be expected to entertain you when you rarely deign me with your gaze?” Jaskier ask haughtily, only half paying attention as he’s distracted by the shops they pass on their way down the center of town. 

“I look to you more often than you might believe, Jaskier.” With that the bard looks over to the witcher and finds those cat like eyes on him and can’t stop the blush that spread across his cheeks. 

They find an inn towards the center of the town and rent rooms and put Roach up at the nearest stables before heading to the tavern they were directed to upon request. It’s nothing special, with a bar, large hearth and tables with chairs in between the two. Geralt sets himself at the bar near the door with a good line of sight throughout the tavern while Jaskier convinces the barkeep that a performance is just what these townspeople need. 

“I’ll give you five crowns for the night if you can keep this crowd here past dinner rush,” the barkeep offers with a dismissive wiping of his hands on a rag from over his shoulder. 

“If you give me ten up front, you keep any gold pieces I receive while I perform,” Jaskier suggest, brightly as if he’s excited to help and get to do his calling. Geralt, after having questioned the man on it before, knows now that this is Jaskier’s favorite haggling tactic. The bard knew that common townspeople rarely tossed gold coin to a performance and if they did, it was far outweighed by the number of copper and decently common silver pieces he got for his more popular songs and requests from individuals. 

“If you insist,” the barkeep chuckles, thinking he’s won quite the prize as Jaskier shakes his hand and darts off to start talking to the crowd but not before flashing a bright smile Geralt’s way. 

The bar is decently filled when Jaskier starts, but the sound of music draws more and more people in, enough to rival the size of the crowd from the dinner rush that had walked in on. The people here know a great number of Jaskier’s songs and sing along jovially with beer mugs raised high. Jaskier belts his lyrics and dances around the room which leads to people moving tables to the far edges of the rooms to make space for a dance floor. 

“Please, please, I am not nearly as intoxicated as you all. I need a moment to catch up!” The crowd cheers and parts for the bard as he makes his way back to the bar. His hair is damp with sweat and sticks to his forehead, a ruddy red color flooding his cheeks and ears and the patch of chest revealed from where Jaskier had unlaced the top of his doublet. 

“A lively crowd,” Geralt notes, waving the bartender over. He looks begrudgingly impressed by the crowd that had been pulled in and it overpowers his obvious annoyance that he had been jipped out of a number of coin. 

“They certainly are generous,” Jaskier smiles brightly, plopping his bag of coin onto the bar with a jangle of metal. He opens the bag and pulls out the two or three gold pieces out of the bunches of copper and smattering of silvers and pushes it to the barkeep with some more to pay for drinks for himself and Geralt. “A pitcher of ale for the witcher and honey wine for me, please.”

When the barkeep drops of their drinks, Geralt looks at the pitcher and his mug and mentally shrugs before picking up the pitcher and drinking straight from that. 

“Geralt, you brute!” Jaskier laughs next to him. 

“What is the point of repeatedly pouring a mug when I can just do this,” Geralt asks, miming complete seriousness but Jaskier just shakes his head with a smile before looking to his own drink. 

After more ale and more wine and more songs, the night must come to a close. Jaskier makes a final, wobbly bow before stumbling his way back to Geralt. 

“Ready to leave little lark? You look ready to fall over,” Geralt asks with a small smile. 

“I request a bed and a warm bedmate,” Jaskier slurs, poking at Geralt’s chest. Geralt rolls his eyes at the phrasing but knows how Jaskier adores poking fun at their way of saving money and warmth by sharing the beds they find. 

“Let’s go then,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier by the arm and led him out of the bar when he finishes paying the barkeep. 

“Ugh, it’s so far, Geralt! I can’t go any further,” Jaskier whines, legs giving out beneath him so the only thing holding him up is Geralt’s grip on the man’s arm. 

“Jask,” Geralt growls, hauling the man up by his shoulders but Jaskier refuses to put him feet under him properly and Geralt is left hold something more like a doll than a full grown man. 

“Carry me!” Jaskier requests, eyes no longer with that hazy quality but bright with the prospect of being bridal carried to the inn. Geralt did it once,  _ once _ when the man was injured and he was apparently never allowed to live it down. 

“No-”

“Well, isn’t he the most delightful thing,” a voice carries through the night air and Geralt is instantly alert, pulling Jaskier closer to him while he surveys his surroundings. His eyes lock on a man he recognizes from the bar, one who had his own gaze on Jaskier far too often for Geralt’s tastes. “So pliant and sweet.”His metaphorical hackles rise.

“What do you want,” Geralt demands more than asks. The man doesn’t seem too perturbed by the witcher’s presence, eyes only for the bard. 

“How much?” He asks, and Geralt can scent the lust rolling off the man in waves made only more disgusting by the amount of alcohol he can smell as well. 

“Not for sale,” Geralt tells him, the hand not full of Jaskier’s doublet moves clearly to the hilt of his sword. 

“Aw, come on. Such a pretty thing, could make a decent bit of coin renting him out,” the man moves forward, despite every sign from Geralt telling him to back off. He swayed on his feet so he wouldn’t be difficult to stop but it was the principle of the thing that made Geralt growl menacingly. “Only for the night, I’ll return him safe and sound even if a little bruised. I promise he’ll like it.” Geralt feels his stomach wretch against the thought of those slimy words coming to fruition. He starts to draw his sword when he feels Jaskier move at his side and at first he believes that Jaskier is falling over.

“I think I could make a quicker and easier coin like this, hmm?” Jaskier has closed the distance between himself and the drunk man in the time it takes Geralt to understand what’s happening. “Would be easy enough to gut you and take what coin you have.”

“I- uh-”

“Hmm, cat’s got your tongue?” Jaskier mocks, clearly enjoying having his blade against the man’s throat. Geralt has to resist the urge to laugh, proud and amazed to see the knife he gave Jaskier years ago pressed just hard enough to distend the skin it touches. He’s in a solid position to defend himself if the man was stupid enough to try to attck with a knife to his throat, knife drawing just a trickle of blood as warning just like Geralt taught him.

“I’m sorry-”

“Oh, I’m sure you are now that there’s a knife between us,” Jaskier chuckles with a wicked edge. 

“I didn’t really mean anything by it, I’m sure you- I mean- I have a wife back home and she’s been busting my balls recently and I just- I’m drunk-” Jaskier nods along with the man’s ramblings mock seriously, eventually lifting a hand to stop him. 

“I see that the cat no longer has your foul smelling tongue, but maybe I could keep it,” Jaskier ponders, “keep it since you aren’t very responsible with it.” The blade glints in the low light of the moon and Geralt watches as the man swallows against the edge. 

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier narrows his eyes as the seconds tick by. 

“What do you think, Geralt? Think he’s learned his lesson?” Jaskier asks, not looking away from the man. 

“You’ve had your fun, Jaskier. Let him go home to his wife,” Geralt suggest. 

“You heard the witcher,” Jaskier says, stepping back and dropping his knife but only as far as his hip, ready to swing at the slightest sign of this man trying anything. But the caution is unneeded as the man practically runs from the scene like a well scorned cat. 

“Did you see that!” Jaskier practically shouts, when the man has disappeared around the corner and his footsteps have faded into the distance. “I completely told him off! With a knife!” Jaskier laughs so hard he doubles over, and Geralt moves quick to pluck the knife from his slack grip. 

“You certainly did,” Geralt affirms, sliding the knife into his belt after putting away his sword. Jaskier looks extremely pleased with himself, smiling widely. 

“I think I’ve earned myself a reward, don’t you think? For being so terribly brave and amazing,” Jaskier says, sauntering back over to the witcher with a sway of his hips. 

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, closing the distance between them and looking Jaskier in the eyes. The air between them feels charged, like how it feels to be where a powerful spell was cast. “And what is it that you want?” He asks, voice low and gravelly as he dips his head to rubs his nose in Jaskier’s sweet smelling hair. He closes his eyes, content to wait the bard out. 

“I want a ride!” Geralt barely has half the first syllable of ‘what’ out of his mouth when the bard bounces and wraps his arms and legs around the witcher like a pesky little vice. Geralt doesn’t stumble but feels the bard start to slip down and is forced to wrap large hands around Jaskier’s thighs to keep him up. “To the inn, noble steed!”

“Insufferable,” Geralt mutters, taking the first steps toward the inn as Jaskier trusts and relaxes into his hold. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one got a little long but I hope ya'll like it!

“Geralt, we’ve been wandering for ages, where is the next town?” Jaskier whines, dropping his shoulders to exaggerate his tired gate next to Roach. 

Geralt just rolls his eyes. Over the years he had learned that Jaskier is much stronger than his finely dressed form would lead you to believe. His legs were strong from travelling and his arms corded with lithe musculature. That didn’t stop him from complaining but that was probably Geralt’s fault in the end. 

When travelling together was still a novelty but after Geralt had started to give a fuck what happened to the bard, he would be more lenient. He will admit he pushed Roach harder in the beginning, hoping to dissuade the man from following Geralt on his travels by showing him how hard it could be. But Jaskier had stuck it out, complaining most of the time but never leaving. Geralt may have grown a begrudging respect for him that resulted in subtly ending their days sooner and sooner, pacing Roach just a little bit slower, stopping in towns more and more often so they could sleep in a real bed. 

“We have only gone 17 miles today, at this rate we won’t reach Novigrad for another three days,” Geralt huffs. 

“You say it as if you don’t prefer sleeping out in the woods,” Jaskier snaps back without any real heat. 

“Fine, we can find somewhere to camp for tonight, but I am pushing you twice as hard tomorrow,” Geralt warns, looking to Jaskier who has perked up considerably. 

“Of course, of course. Just like how we “rushed” to Vizima,” Jaskier pokes at Geralt’s knee and skips away, safe in the knowledge that they will go just as slow as they did today because apparently Geralt has grown soft. 

It’s only half an hour more before they find a spot that Geralt deems sufficient to settle for the night. He leaves Jaskier to start a fire and tends to Roach while he disappears into the woods to find dinner. When he returns, Roach is settled on her side with her legs tucked up next to her body with Jaskier leaning against her and his lute in hand and strums it gently while looking at the fire warming his feet. 

“Well hello,” Jaskier says with a sly smile when he notices Geralt just staring at the pair. Roach was tempermental to say the least, more likely to bite a hand than accept the apple it offered. But here she was,  _ laying down _ , and relaxed with Jaskier tucked up against her like this was their nightly routine and Geralt didn’t quite know how to handle that. 

“I got some rabbits,” he finally manages, lifting the two in his hand as if to prove it. 

“I see that, plan to cook them anytime soon or are we just going to stare at them and hope you can obtain their sustenance by chance?” Jaskier asks, eyebrow lifting playfully, his strumming never faltering. 

Geralt just grunts and moves toward the fire, finding a nice stick for a spit and gets to work skinning the rabbits as Jaskier’s melodies wash over him. The task is simple and so well practised that he lets his mind wander while the fur and skin fall away. Jaskier plays with a familiar melody, adding a flourish here and there or altering the harmony that makes it new and interesting enough to keep Geralt’s attention. 

“Do you think - Geralt!”

Geralt doesn’t see the man coming with his back turned but he should have heard him. But he doesn’t and all he sees is Jaskier’s wide and terrified eyes before the world goes dark. 

***

“A witcher has to catch a decent price at market, I’m sure there’s something devilish wizards can do with their guts and such.” The first voice Geralt hears as he wakes makes his skin prickle and a low growl resonate through his chest. But there’s something wrong, he can only hear muffled sound, unable to just tune into the sound like he usually would. 

“But what of the bard? I don’t think he’ll be worth the trouble of transport,” another voice speaks, coming to Geralt’s ears as if through cotton causing Geralt’s eyes to flash open and look around despite the instant headache it brings. 

He’s in a cellar of sorts, deep underground where it was cold enough to seep into his bones and the sunlight doesn’t reach. He squints into the inky darkness and growls in frustration when his eyes don’t adjust to the lack of light as they normally would. He has battled in the darkest of crypts as if lit by candles, can track prey through a forest only guided by the moon. He instead slowly sits up and gathers his sore legs under himself to try and walk around. Putting a hand out and sliding his feet across the ground not happy with only being able to see his hands when they’re half an arms length from his face. He finds empty shelves along two of the walls that must have, at one point, held various foods and provisions but now lay barren. There’s a staircase that must lead into the house above where the captors are speaking and a few empty crates lay in various corners but nothing much else. He looks around, holding his breath and preparing for the worst. 

“Jaskier?” He calls out, not finding him immediately and fearing for his companion. Surely they would keep him in the same room, what would be the point in separating them, was he upstairs with their captors, was he being -

There’s a noise from the far corner, small and gurgling and Geralt’s eyes flash towards it to find an unassuming lump there. He moves towards the sound as best he can and drops to his knees next to Jaskier, paying no mind to the shock to his kneecaps.

“Jaskier, can you hear me?” Geralt places a careful hand on what he thinks is the bard’s shoulder, not wanting to disturb any possible injuries. 

“Buuh,” Jaskier rolls freely with a gentle tug from Geralt’s hand and sort of flops against the floor. There’s a few bruises along his jaw and a cut to the apex of his cheekbone and his doublet is torn but there’s no significant amount of blood for him to be worried about. He looks so fragile while laying prone on the floor and Geralt has to resist the urge to growl and cover him with his own body.

“What happened?” Geralt presses, keeping his ears as tuned to their captors squabbling above them as he can. 

“They- they hit you over the head with some sort of magic bat and you fell. You tried getting up and you nearly did, I swear it but-” Geralt can tell Jaskier is getting more and more worked up as he thinks about it and all the witcher can do lay a hand over the bard’s heart and let the smaller man grasp at his wrist until his breathing calms down. 

“The second guy hit you again and rubbed something into your mouth. And you were just out and they threw you over Roach, who nipped one of them pretty bad considering the noise he made, oh boy, but I was just standing there and I couldn’t -”

“I’m sure you would have only gotten more hurt, they were well prepared,” Geralt soothes but Jaskier makes a face. “What did you do, Jaskier.” Geralt doesn’t even make it a question, already preparing himself to be mad. 

“Well, they knocked you out and after I stood there a moment because it was shocking of course, they turned to me and they were talking about just putting you on Roach and leaving me there because what’s a measly bard worth to them anyways but I just couldn’t watch them take you away and I would be stranded, Geralt. You know I would die within days, my internal compass is  _ not _ reliable and I was so worried. I mean, how was I to find you again if they left and galloped away and-”

“ _ Jaskier _ .”

Jaskier dropped his shoulders back against the ground and his gaze from where it had been darting to anywhere but Geralt to look down at his hands where they are still wrapped around Geralt’s wrist. One of which Geralt now sees is bruised. 

“I may have punched one of them in the face and called the other a dishonored piece of duck shit,” the bard eventually mumbles. 

“You called him-”

“A dishonored piece of duck shit,” Jaskier says again, lifting his chin and meeting Geralt’s eyes with a defiant gaze. 

“You goaded a couple of armed men, who had just incapcitated a witcher in front of you, into kidnapping you as well?” Geralt asks, raising his eyebrows and fighting back a smile because it was stupid of him, _ damnit _ . But it was also so very  _ Jaskier _ . 

“Well, when you put it like that-”

“Only you, little lark, only you,” he sighs, still fighting that smile as he removes his hand from the bard’s chest and sits back to cross his legs. Jaskier rises slowly with a small groan, back popping as he goes. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks, blue eyes wide and sincere enough that Geralt manages to swallow back the diressive snort before it can leave his throat. 

“I cannot hear or see as well as normal and I had not yet determined why before I found you here.”

“Your senses are broken?” Jaskier asks, face twisting up in confusion. 

“No, more that they are dampened. It must be what being a human is like,” Geralt reasons, looking through the dark and finding too little for comfort. 

“But you’re not hurt? They whacked you pretty damn hard, Geralt.”

“I’m fine,” the witcher waves him off, “It’s just a knock to the head-”

“And some concoction that has dampened your senses, surely that can’t be good?”

Geralt is saved from responding with the sound of heavy footsteps upstairs headed in their direction. Geralt stands and goes to the bottom of the stairs, feeling Jaskier step beside him. As they look up there’s the sound of something sliding and a shaft of light briefly blinds him before a set of eyes is revealed through a hole in the door. 

“You’re awake.”

“Are you surprised?” Geralt asks, attempting to subtly push Jaskier behind him. 

“Your body processes the poison quicker than we anticipated but that will not be an issue,” the eyes in the door respond easily. “Release the bard to us, we have preparations to make.”

“Release him? No, I don’t think I will.”

“You will or you can stay there until you pass out from starvation and we gather you then. Your choice.”

Geralt growls but is subdued when Jaskier leans in close, lips nearly pressed to the witcher’s shoulder since he cannot get to his ear. 

“It’s alright, Geralt. Trust me,” the bard whispers, one hand rubbing up and down the witcher’s spine in comfort. “There are only two of them, correct? Could you only hear two people?”

“Yes but they are more likely to kill you than keep you,” Geralt hissed, pushing backwards like if he could just get the bard out of sight, he would be safe. 

“I have a plan, don’t worry.” Instead of backing with Geralt like an obedient companion, Jaskier does a twisting maneuver that spins himself just out of Geralt’s reach even if he stumbles a moment, falling to one knee. And maybe his witcher sight is coming back to him, or maybe he just got lucky, but Geralt saw the little knife the bard pulls out of his boot before standing upright with a convincingly embarrassed smile on his face. Geralt watches the man walk up the stairs and sees the way he deftly tucks the knife into his sleeve. 

The door at the top opens and Jaskier walks through. Geralt watches as the man who had been behind the door steps behind Jaskier and starts to close the door and that’s when it happens. 

Geralt doesn’t see how it happens, but the man cries out as he tumbles backwards and down the stairs until he lands groaning at Geralt’s feet. He’s quick to kick the man just to be sure he stays down before dashing up the stairs to Jaskier and the second captor, a tight ball of worry lodged deep in his gut. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt calls, not seeing the bard when he makes it to the top but almost immediately hears the scuffle to his right. 

“Stay down, you bastard. I don’t want to bloody this doublet on top of all the dirt!” 

Geralt finds his bard straddled over the second captor with his small knife to the man’s throat. He’s already drawn a bit of blood that slowly trickles over the man’s skin and drips onto the floor. Jaskier has managed to pin the man’s arms under his knees and has one hand firmly planted on his chest to hold him down to the ground. 

“Jaskier?”

“Oh, Geralt! Look, who I caught!” The bard smiles up at him from the floor as Geralt approaches with keen eyes on the man captured. 

“Hmm,”

“I’m sure we can get him to tell us how to reverse your condition-”

“I won’t! He’s forever handicapped, I shall swear it-”

“If we just persuade him,” the bard continues as if he wasn’t interrupted. Jaskier’s smile goes wicked, eyes glazing over with something sharper than even the steel in his hand as he presses the blade into the kidnappers throat to draw a fresh wave of blood. The man eeps pitifully and scrunches his eyes closed. 

“Do not torture him, Jaskier. He will tell us,” Geralt sighs, grabbing the bard by the scruff of his doublet and pulling him up. He also plants a firm boot on the man’s chest to dissuade an attempt at escape while he checked the bard for injury.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” He whines, wiggling out of Geralt’s grip but is careful not to bring the knife up in any way to hurt the witcher. “I’m trying to help you, damnit.” Geralt just rolls his eyes and turns back to the man on the ground. 

“Where is the antidote?” He presses his boot down firmer than before and the man squeaks once more before pointing to a cabinet on the far side of the room. Geralt prods Jaskier into getting it, watching the man open the cabinet doors and pull out some clothes and things before finding a strangely shaped bottle that reminds Geralt of Yenn’s various concoctions. 

“This one?” Jaskier asks, holding the bottle over the man’s face. 

“Yes. The witch we got it from said the witcher just had to drink that to reverse it.”

“And why are kidnapers concerned with reversing the effects of a weakened witcher?” Jaskier asks, eyes narrowing. 

“We were going to sell him, as a personal mercenary. He wouldn’t be as useful without his full witcher power.” The man explains, his body trembling under Geralt’s boot. 

“Well, I swear to Melitele that if anything adverse happens to Geralt, I will slit your throat without hesitating and leave you to bleed out while I take him to a sorceress friend to save him either way. The only way you win, is if you are telling me the truth,” Jaskier explains slowly, poking the man’s cheek with his blade. 

The man nods, “I understand.”

“Good. Geralt, bottoms up,” Jaskier says, only now handing over the vial. 

Geralt knocks it back like any one of his other potions, careful not to taste it too much. His ears start to ring and the world tilts on its axis, making his close his eyes against all of the overwhelming sensation before it all fades away. The steady thump of Jaskier’s heart returns to his ears and he breathes out a long breath. 

“Well? Are you alright?” Jaskier asks, one hand gently pressed to Geralt’s cheek. 

“Hmm.” Geralt nods, lifting his boot off the man below him and opening his eyes. 

“Well, thank Melitele,” Jaskier huffs, forehead dropping to Geralt’s chest with a thunk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come visit me on tumblr!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and after several weeks, I'm back! enjoy :) if you watch critical role and catch the reference hmu in the comments!!

Geralt has wondered on occasion when the last time he experienced true silence over the years, the kind of silence that brings peace. The petty side of him would say the last time he knew peace was the day before he entered that god forsaken tavern with the bard singing raunchy tunes about abortion. But the softer voice, that he is usually all too good at squashing, would murmur that last night while Jaskier mumbled in his sleep under a clear sky full of stars and the fire just warm enough between them was peaceful like nothing else has ever been. 

“But Geralt!”

_ Nope, maybe the last day of peace was the day before the damned bard was born _ , Geralt huffs internally. 

“They are dead, Jaskier, there is nothing else to be done.”

“But you heard them! They wanted to kidnap you and fill you with unspeakable potions to coerce you into servitude!” Jaskier exclaims from the road beside Roach, grabbing on to Geralt's stirrup and shaking his foot a bit. Geralt just shakes him off and sighs. 

“But they are dead-”

“There could be more! Like the sorcerer or sorceress that made the potions, surely they might get a bright idea to start something of their own!” Jaskier looks up to the witcher with big eyes like he’s pleading with him. 

And Jaskier doesn’t plead, he wheedles and charms and occasionally swindles into getting his way but does not plead. Even when they have not a coin between them and have slept in the forest for days, hunting every meal he does not plead. He goes to the nearest town and nearly bewitches the town into handing it over, winks and sings and dances with the maids. Sings his little heart out until their coin purse jingles merrily. 

“And what do you think I should do about it?” Geralt asks, with yet another sigh but Jaskier’s eyes light up. 

“You should tell the other witchers, spread the word that there are people who wish to do them harm,” Jaskier says, nodding his head as if it were the perfect plan. 

“Then it would be a waste of time, for that is no different than any other day for a witcher.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier admonishes. But even he drops his chin a bit in defeat because he knows it to be true. 

“Nobody particularly wants witchers around. They may need us on occasion, but nobody is in want of a mutant.” The silence after that is heavier than most, it sits between them like an unwanted rock tethered to them just to weigh them down together. 

They continue their journey and eventually the heaviness between them disappears with Jaskier's humming at first, very quietly to himself, and eventually building in volume until he starts whispering to Roach quietly enough that Geralt can simply tune him out. But he doesn’t. He would never admit it, not even on pain of death, but he enjoys the little tales the bard weaves for the horse. Stories of wars and monsters and love. Before long, his lute comes out and he’s adding cords to the stories to match the mood and changing the words to rhyming schemes that Geralt can’t keep up with without a window into the man’s mind. 

When night falls and he returns to the camp Jaskier has set up while Geralt was out hunting, he takes a deep breath through his nose. 

“Winter will be here sooner rather than later.” It’s true, the air is growing sharper and the wind carries a chill at night that can only promise snow in the mountains. 

“And?” Jaskier asks, poking a stick at the fire he’s built to bring it down to a better roasting flame. Once finished he retreats back to his bedroll and puts his lute in his lap, a small rag and the resin and oils he uses to keep it nice. 

“Most witchers go back to Kaer Morhen for the winter to rest and stay warm while the contracts dry up. People are more likely to die of exposure than a drowner in December.” Geralt explains all of this while going about spitting the rabbits on a stick provided by Jaskier and placing the meat over the fire. He is careful to skin the rabbits before bringing them to camp, since the last time he skinned one in front of the bard he scented the salty tang of tears and adamant assurances that he was simply not hungry. 

“Is that where you go? We normally part ways around November but I never knew where you went,” Jaskier inquires. 

“You would go to Oxenfurt.” Jaskier looks up from his work with his lute with an expression of surprise. 

“You  _ do _ listen to me!” He sounds gleeful and Geralt listens to his human heart tick up as he sets his lute aside and crawls over to get into Geralt’s space. “What else do you know? Come on, spit it out. I know you’ve been listening all these years.” The smile on his face is positively gleeful and Geralt is soft for nothing else. 

“You are employed to teach poetry over the winter months but you would much rather teach language and music, specifically Elder because you find songs written in that tongue to be absolutely haunting and lovely,” Geralt says like he’s releasing something delicate, like a bird from a cage in his chest. “You grew up in a noble house but found it stuffy and arrogant and left to travel after you got your education. You miss your mother on occasion and go to visit her every April on the second weekend to see a play no matter what play it is so you don’t accidentally run into your father.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier’s eyes have gone soft and a little distant. There’s a mist hanging on his lower lash line that is just on the cusp of falling before Jaskier’s lifts a hand and wipes it away with the palm of his hand. 

“I do listen and I enjoy knowing about you,” Geralt eventually adds, checking the rabbits before pulling them off the fire and handing some to Jaskier. The rest can be dried and put into their food pouches. 

Dinner is a quiet affair but Jaskier smells of nothing but sweat and dust and something fresh and light that tells Geralt it is a happy sort of silence very unlike this afternoon. After dinner, they bury the scraps so nothing comes looking for what smells good and get ready for bed. They get ready in a sort of dance that they have perfected over the years, something familiar that alerts Geralt’s brain that it’s time for bed. With each passing movement as they split off to change and relieve themselves, drink some water and smooth out blankets Geralt’s eyes grow heavier. 

“I know you have a standing position at Oxenfurt,” Geralt starts, stopping himself when he hears Jaskier’s usual blanket shuffling as he gets comfortable come to a halt. 

“I do. And every winter they ask me to stay.” 

Geralt holds that thought for a moment, taking into account that every spring for more than a decade, Geralt finds himself in Redania and just so happening to come across a familiar mop of brown hair and the brightest blue eyes he’s ever seen. 

His first instinct is to ask the bard why he doesn’t stay. Why not be with the people who understand you, who value your work? Why rough it with a witcher of all people? Why risk life and limb when you could be heralded as a great and wonderful teacher and influence the next generation of creative minds. But he knows better than to ask such things, so instead he asks what he would rather know -

“Would you like to accompany me to Kaer Morhen this winter instead?” Throughout the years Geralt has experienced many silences. Even today alone there have been several different types and each is as unique as a breed of bird, with its own purpose and reason. Now, is a time of contemplation. Somewhat tense but maybe just a little hopeful. 

“I would need to send a letter, and wait to receive another,” Jaskier finally responds, words a little slow as if he expects to be cut off even if Geralt is the one who wanted the answer. 

“We can stop in Rinde for a week with the coin we have from your last performance alone,” Geralt offers. “But I will find work and pitch in as well.” Jaskier hums and Geralt hears the scuffle of him rolling over and inevitably tangling himself in the blankets before finally settling down. 

***

Rinde is loud. Rinde is not where Geralt wishes to be but it is objectively the best place to stay while Jaskier waits for a response from Oxenfurt on his proposed sabbatical. The town was a thriving place, full of people and plenty to do and see with just enough people scattered outside the city’s mainstay to support a witcher’s work while Jaskier thrived in various taverns each night. 

But Rinde is also where Geralt had buried deep memories, memories that seemed to come around at the worst of times if he wasn’t careful. Even when he was careful, Yennefer had a knack for appearing anyway. 

“I need this to get there before the end of the week,” Jaskier tells the carrier he’s hired. The private post was always quicker than the general public’s mail. “And I request an immediate response if possible.”

“It will be done,” the carrier nods before spurring his horse away. 

“Hopefully, I’ll have an answer by the end of the week,” Jaskier turns back to Geralt with a smile. “I must say I am hoping for a particular answer,” he added while ducking his chin shyly. 

“Hmm,” Geralt hums but there’s a small smile pushing at the corner of his mouth that Jaskier catches and returns. 

“It’s not everyday a witcher invites you to his secret hideaway in the mountains,” Jaskier continues, with a lilt to his voice that encourages Geralt to play along. 

“Not everyday we find someone crazy enough to bring.”

“Hey, you brute!” Jaskier pushes at his shoulder but he’s laughing and when Geralt doesn’t move the bard simply takes the momentum back and spins as they walk through the center of town. Geralt watches him as he goes, skipping here and there and humming to himself that the witcher tunes into with more purpose when the bard gets further away. 

“Excuse me! Witcher!” Geralt takes one last look to note Jaskier has stopped at a vendor booth selling little trinkets he definitely doesn’t need before turning to the sound of the voice calling him. 

“Yes?” What he finds is a shorter man, narrow shoulders with small eyes under absurdly heavy eyebrows. 

“Are you available for hire?” Geralt looks back over his shoulder to where Jaskier is now animatedly throwing his hands around, likely attempting (and failing) to haggle. 

“Yes.”

“Let’s talk over a meal then. How about dinner at the Leaky Tap?” The man’s eyebrows raise in question and Geralt is a little amazed the hefty things can be moved. 

“Hmm.” The man slips into the crowd just seconds before Jaskier appears at his side. 

“A new contract?” Jaskier asks, upper body turned to shove something into the pack Geralt bought for him a couple years back when Geralt got tired of finding Jaskier’s things confusingly jumbled with his own. Particularly when Geralt mindlessly rubbed lavender oil into his sword instead of his necrophage oil. 

“Possibly. We’re having dinner at the Leaky Tap this evening,” Geralt explains. 

“Well, I hope they have decent lodging, I’ve been wanting a bed for days now. A proper pillow would do wonders for my neck,” the bard sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his skull and down the right side of his neck. 

“What’s wrong with your neck?” Geralt asks, leading the way through the market crowd, the people parting before him. 

“Just a stubborn cric, it’ll be fine.” Jaskier waves him off. “So, where is this Leaky Tap?”

Geralt points forward and Jaskier powers forward as if that tells him all he needs to know. Geralt rolls his eyes and accepts that he will have to shout directions from a few paces back. 

***

  
  


“Witcher!” The man from earlier calls from across the tavern, waving him down to a table in the back of the room. 

“Surely he knows your name, I’ve made that easy enough,” Jaskier scoffs from beside him. 

“Hush, bard.” This only makes Jaskier roll his eyes harder but he obeys. For now. 

“I did promise a meal, but I did not plan on company,” the man intones with some easily detected irritation. 

“We can pay for our own meals,” Geralt replies swiftly and in a tone that brooks no arguments. The bard stays. 

“Well, if you insist,” the man smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes as his gaze moves between Geralt and Jaskier. “My name is Gilmyn Rogerus and I need your assistance. I am willing to pay a good bit of coin for your services.”

Gilmyn waves down a barmaid and they order. Geralt catches Jaskier’s eye, the troubadour quirks one eyebrow before turning back to the barmaid to order and flirt. 

“And what service would that be?” Geralt asks.

“There’s a griffon out in the mountains and I fear it will soon grow tired of hunting deer and decide to investigate this buffet we call Rinde.” Geralt grunts, accepting the beer that’s placed before him. 

“I’m not one to kill creatures that haven’t given me cause to. This griffon could just as easily fly the far side of the mountain to never be seen again.”

“As much as I wish I could give this beast the benefit of the doubt, it’s already eaten a healer woman who lives deeper in the woods,” Gilmyn explains, shaking his head with a sigh. Geralt narrows his eyes but only continues to drink his beer. “Please, master witcher. I cannot stand by with this knowledge and allow Rinde to be attacked.”

“And why is it your responsibility to protect Rinde?” Geralt asks. He feels Jaskier shift beside him, fiddling with his lute balanced in his lap as if he could care less about the proceedings but Geralt knows if he were truly uninterested he would be performing and earning coin not wasting the dinner rush on a contract. 

“I am the lawmaster here, I am  _ the  _ protector,” Gilmyn insists, thick eyebrows resting heavy over his dark eyes. 

“Alright, give me the details.”

They sit there for a while more, discussing over a sparse but decently helpful map. Their meal comes and Jaskier eats slowly but once he’s finished he wanders off and Gearlt hears him playing a familiar tune moments later. 

“This is a down payment for your time, I will be happy to give you the rest upon proof of the kill,” Gilmyn hands over a coin purse that feels decently heavy in Geralt’s palm. When he opens the bag he finds nearly two palmfuls of gold. 

“How do you know I won’t just leave town with this?” Geralt asks, genuinely curious for the first time in the conversation. 

“Because, if you complete this job, there is ten times as much of that to come,” Gilmyn tells him with a grin that doesn’t sit right with Geralt. Without a word more Gilmyn leaves the table and tavern behind. The tavern goers cheer soon after and then there’s a flushed Jaskier sitting across from him. 

“That man is nothing good, Geralt.”

“Mhm,” he hums, looking down at the coin purse. “He offers too good of money for the job, I’ve been paid just this purse for a griffon before, but he promises 10 times more for the job completed.”

“His alias is also ridiculous,” Jaskier rolls his eyes but Geralt’s brows furrow together in confusion, silently requesting an explanation. “Gilmyn Rogerus is the man who wrote  _ The Great Continent _ , a wonderful commentary on human-elf relations from 100 years ago.”

“I see.” Geralt was always a little thrown by how well read Jaskier was, forgetting that Jaskier was a scholar himself. 

“So, what are we going to do? I see two options, really - take the coin and head to the next town over,” he pauses, looking up at Geralt with a wry smile, “or we see this through.”

“It’s a trap.”

“Oh, gods know that,” Jaskier laughs, a bright sound in the dim room around them. “But that’s never stopped you before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops, there's a plot now. I don't know how long this is gonna be so wish me luck!
> 
> find me on Tumblr [@a-pie-with-no-filling](http://a-pie-with-no-filling.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on tumblr! [ @a-pie-with-no-filling ](https://a-pie-with-no-filling.tumblr.com/)


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